


made too many wrong mistakes.

by dre_amer



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author Projecting onto Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Author is a Clay | Dream Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), Bombs, Character Death, Clay | Dream Angst (Video Blogging RPF), DadSchlatt, Death, Gen, Guilt, Guilty Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Heavy Angst, He’s trying his best, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt No Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Summaries, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insane Wilbur Soot, Insanity, Insecure Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Lots and lots of pain, Mistakes, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Pain, Prison, Sad Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Touch-Starved Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), We die like endermen, at least I hope, god please don’t let this fail i will Cry if this flops, i wish i took the time that i used to write this fic and instead did my homework, not likely tho lol, sapnap and dream childhood besties supremacy, speaking of crying, the amount of breakdowns i had while writing this fic, unless i make it into a full fledged multi chaptered fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29729661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dre_amer/pseuds/dre_amer
Summary: “Dream stares into the air and sees all of the mistakes he's made with his unseeing eyes.He lifts his hand, gently traces the outlines of one of them. Some of his mistakes are shaped like a horse's leather. Some appear in the form of discs, broken purple and green cracked along the white stripes. Others look like a diamond man, a few fish in a water bucket, an axe and a clump of blue wool. A grieved cow, a cherished dog, a precious horse.Cherished, as he once had been. Precious, as he never was.”TW // self harm , suicidal thoughts , suicide , alcoholism , scars .please look through these and make sure they’re safe topics for you to read about!! if this content is possibly triggering for you, then please, click away and stay safe.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 93





	made too many wrong mistakes.

**Author's Note:**

> idea: dream, who has to take care of alcoholic & abusive schlatt, manage l’manberg and the rest of the smp’s relations, has to deal with tommy‘s obsession for his discs and wilbur’s insanity and everyone else’s hurt and anger, who has to constantly bear the role of a villain on his shoulders and take the blame onto his own bruised body, finally takes his life in the lonely confines of his cell.
> 
> ... my mind came up with that idea at like 2:30 am in the morning after sobbing over various dream angst fics. i don’t know either.
> 
> y’all know the drill by now; this is a fic entry for a dream angst writing competition bUT it can also be read on its own. now that that’s over with, enjoy the fic :)

There's too much in the air hanging around him. 

Dream stares into the air and sees all of the mistakes he's made with his unseeing eyes. 

He lifts his hand, gently traces the outlines of one of them. Some of his mistakes are shaped like a horse's leather. Some appear in the form of discs, broken purple and green cracked along the white stripes. Others look like a diamond man, a few fish in a water bucket, an axe and a clump of blue wool. A grieved cow, a cherished dog, a precious horse. 

Cherished, as he once had been. Precious, as he never was. 

Some of Dream's mistakes are shaped like ram's horns, curly and shiny with a film of alcohol. A trench coat and hysterical dark chocolate eyes, all melted and burning. Green and red bandanas, flying strands of blonde and brown hair, bright grins and tight, stiff tilts of the lips. Worn white clout goggles, baby blue shirts with bright red squares. White bandanas and hot, wispy flames imprinted onto gray shirts. Black hoods lined with red, checkered neckerchiefs and steaming muffins. 

At first, his mistakes were excused. Brushed off as something other than what they were. 

_'I'm just trying to keep you safe,'_ he had said. 

The counter ticks. 

_'Just trying to keep peace,'_ he had lied. 

Tick, tick. Another one. 

**_'One big happy family.'_ **

The counter's needle flinches upwards again. 

Dream'd thought that one would've been the last. He'd finally made his last mistake, and he'd be forbidden from making more. Locked away in layers upon layers of obsidian, curtains upon curtains of lava. Wrapped up in cocoons of his previous lies, his former mistakes and tucked away from anyone and anything else. 

But.

_There was always a 'but.'_

But no. 

Dream keeps making mistakes. This time, his mistakes look like clocks. They look like burning time, melting wood and fiery hour and minute hands. They look like undeserved 'Thank you's scribbled into book — undeserved, because Dream doesn't deserve to thank anyone — and muffled tensions rising anew. They look like the snapped, broken figure of a cat who resembled hope. 

A heavy sigh is drawn out of his lips as he drops his hand. The mistakes are strung up from the obsidian ceiling by invisible thread, and they spin leisurely, sinisterly in front of jaded eyes. 

Dream lets his eyelids slide closed and pulls his arms over his head, feeling the tip of his mistakes brushing the top of his head too gently. 

He clutches onto the sharp, cutting edge with weak fingers, trembling under the strain of his own weight. 

Dream is so close to falling.

* * *

“Wilbur, Wilbur, _stop.”_

Dream watches as Tommy attempts to step in between them, hands waving and eyes frantic. The teenager’s words come out rushed and quick and fall on ears long-gone. 

_“Dream,”_ Wilbur hisses. His dark brown eyes are alit with a glow that Dream isn’t quite familiar with — yet. He shoves Tommy aside, ignoring the panicked sputters and stepping up to the silent admin. “Dream, let me be your vessel.” 

“Vessel- _vessel?_ What the- what the shit are you talking about, Wilbur?” Tommy tries to push himself in between the two again, but this time he can’t. 

Wilbur stares down into the beady eyes of the mask. Dream’s mask stares up at his burning, molten eyes passively. 

Oh, how different Wilbur’s words are, and yet how unchanging is the man who speaks them. Just a week ago, Wilbur had been hurling harsh, hysterical words at him. Now, he’s spitting trapped promises and burning, crackling demands. 

Dream doesn’t say anything, just watches Wilbur and wonders if this will be considered as another mistake. 

He watches as Tommy frantically attempts to speak with Wilbur, to communicate with him through angry, panicked shouts and yells. This boy, this child, wants to keep a nation built on pillars of sand and drugs and lies alive. He’s trying so hard, he’s trying his best, and it hurts too much to witness. 

So Dream turns his head, averts his eyes, and presses a few stacks of TNT into Wilbur’s gloved hands. The admin doesn’t look at the grin stretching across Wilbur’s lips, or the horror that permeates Tommy’s face. He doesn’t feel the heated prickle of his eyes or the strange ache behind his nose. 

He’s just trying to keep them all safe, to keep the peace between two fragile nations, pirouetting on a thin thread with flames cackling in the background and awaiting their turn. 

Dream's trying to keep them safe. 

Dream doesn’t realize until later.

Not until Wilbur — Wilbur? — rasps out those words to Philza halfway across the nation, not until worn fingers with chipped, bitten nails press into a single wooden button, not until Philza cries out with anguish as he drives his sword through his eldest son’s stomach. 

_‘Oh,’_ Dream whispers to himself. _‘Oh.’_

He can’t do anything but watch, terrified horror creeping and leaking into his veins, as his _nation_ — his land and people — crumbles to ashes in front of his very eyes. 

Another tick. Another weight on his shoulders. Another mistake swirling, spinning, twirling from the air. 

His fingers quiver, fingertips staining a pale, strained white and fingernails staining a warm, dried scarlet. His arms and hands are weakening, he can feel it. 

One by one, his fingers slip off the edge, slick with sweat, until he’s just barely hanging on by a single hand. He finds that he doesn’t mind this too much. 

Dream’s feet dangle over the inky midnight chasm. 

* * *

Dream steps into the private office of L’Manberg’s president and immediately swallows down a violent retch. 

The room absolutely _stinks_ of the putrid scent of cheap alcohol and old bile, the rank scent accumulating in the stuffy air. Dream surveys the room with his lips curling disgustedly, twisting into a final frown when his hidden eyes land on Schlatt. 

The ram hybrid is on the verge of passing out, a murky green glass bottle held by the weak grip of two fingers barely clinging on, head bowed and hanging as if his neck is too weak to support the full weight of his mind. Schlatt’s head lolls to the side and he shoots Dream a single grin, too wide and delirious. 

“Dream,” he slurs. The blonde wants to lunge forward and rip his name from the hybrid’s mouth — it doesn’t belong there. Too filthy of a home, even for a name of someone like Dream. 

He still answers the drunken man, tone mild. “Schlatt.” 

“How’re- how’re you doing, yeah?” His words stumble and trip in the air, so different from the cutting, booming ones on the day of the election. Schlatt’s head hangs loosely again. “Came here to- to visit me? Visit your poor old fath-” 

Dream inhales sharply through his nose. “Stop.” 

“Oho?” Schlatt’s bushy eyebrows raise, worming their way up his wrinkled brow. “You’ve lost your cool, Dream.” 

Dream takes a moment to reply. “I haven’t.” He tilts his head towards the mess on the floor, shards of green glass and shattered words scattered across the formerly clean marble. “It seems you have, though.” 

Schlatt waves his hand vaguely, the one that isn’t clutching the thin neck of the green bottle. “Quackity- Quackity will come clean it up sometime soon.” 

Dream stares down at this poor, poor excuse of a man. “When was the last time he came here?” 

The ram hybrid tilts his head to the side, grin widening as he presses his lips to the bottle again. “Er- maybe... maybe a day? Or three? What day is it?” 

Before Dream can answer — which he wouldn’t have either way, he knows the answer already — Schlatt continues on. “It’s fine, it doesn’t matter anyway.” 

Dream grinds his jaw together and nudges an unbroken but empty bottle on the floor, lips tightening in disgust when it rolls into a puddle of bile. 

“You gonna clean that up?” Schlatt slurs. Dream ignores him and crouches to scoop up another bottle, this one cracked down the side. 

Dream does, in fact, clean it up. He moves around the room, picking up glass bottles that haven’t shattered apart first.

There aren’t many of them. 

As Dream shuffles around, nose wrinkled the entire time, Schlatt mumbles and sometimes shouts things in the background. Dream has learned to drown them out, but then one garbled sentence reaches through his ears and claws at his mind. 

“You feel yourself slowly becoming a monster, don’t you?” 

Dream tenses, fingers going numb and nearly dropping one of the last unbroken bottles. Schlatt doesn’t notice. 

“You know you’re falling deeper, you know you’re digging a hole for yourself and then jumping and digging further, but you just- _can’t stop.”_

Another swig. Another unintelligible mumble in between. 

“Isn’t that what you’re doing, Dream? Isn’t that-” 

“Stop it,” Dream snaps for the second time. “Just stop talking.” 

Schlatt just grins at him as his filmy eyes gleam brighter. He doesn’t need to be sober to know he’s managed to shake Dream.

“You’re setting yourself up to be the ultimate villain, aren’t you?” 

Dream’s hands tremble, and he tightens his grip on those accursed bottles. "I'm not." 

"Oh?" He takes another swig. "Then what is it? What’s going on in that dumb little head of yours, Dream?” 

Dream’s vision blurs — from tears or from panic, he doesn’t know — as he struggles to keep his breathing steady. Goddammit, how is Schlatt so eloquent even when he’s drunk out of his mind? It’s not fair how easily he can twist and play with Dream’s mind, it’s not fair. 

“Nothing you need to know,” he finally bites out, turning away and reminding himself to breathe, beginning to pick up the broken, jagged shards. There are too many of them, both inside and out. 

Schlatt just laughs. Laughs from his position, hunched over his desk and head lolling from side to side, a greasy film sliding over his unfocused eyes and heavy lips mouthing slurred words still too clear for Dream’s spiraling mind. 

He clenches his hands into fists, forgetting what he’s holding in his hands. Invisible splinters and spikes of glass shove themselves into the skin of his palms, and it stings. Cerise trickles from the cuts, dripping down from the tips of his fingers. 

Dream glances down and notices the blood. He notices the pain, the sting, the way the serrated glass crystals grind against his ruined skin.

He doesn’t let go. 

Dream lets go. He falls, he lands on a soft platform that his body sinks into. 

He flails a little, trying to claw his way out. Dream didn't want this. He wanted a quick death, an easy one, not- not whatever this is. 

Dream's eyes widen when the inky tendrils, soft like clouds and choking, suffocating, like poison, wraps around his body and mouth and drags him down further. 

_'Oh,'_ he thinks. _'Oh.'_

Dream suffocates, drowns, ever-so-slowly. 

* * *

Dream still remembers the first time someone found out — other than, of course, Schlatt, who didn’t give a single fuck anymore.

It had been Sapnap.

Of course it had been Sapnap. 

Dream smiles as his unseeing eyes trail over the humid air. Sapnap always liked his shelters rather hot. The blonde’s fingertips, deceivingly pale and perfect and unscathed compared to the rest of his arms, trace the outline of the wooden table he’s sitting at. 

Dream’s quite surprised Sapnap has a wooden table in the first place — using inflammable furniture can’t be easy for a temperamental arsonist like him — but when he finds that little carving the two had etched into the wood permanently with shaking hands all those years ago, he smiles and knows. 

_Another attachment,_ his filthy mind supplies. _Another source of power that can be taken advantage of._

Dream sometimes wants to tie a headband around his head in hopes that it’ll act like as a gag, a silencer for his mind. He doubts it’ll help, though, so he just grinds his teeth and turns to Sapnap. 

The dark-haired man is staring at him with dark, dark eyes that look like they’ve been sprinkled with ash. Like the fire, the flames in them have burned out and the only thing left is gray dust that crumbles further in your palms. A small furrow between his eyebrows appear; Sapnap looks almost worried. 

Worried, for Dream. 

_What a stupid thought,_ he snorts internally. Fancy as he may, it would never happen. Not after all of the unspeakable things he’s done — on purpose too, to rub salt into the cuts and slices on his already pain-riddled palms. 

Dream hates the fact that these kind of thoughts still linger. These hopes and wonders, starting out so tiny Dream doesn’t think of crushing them at first, but then suddenly swelling up at random times and prodding insistently at his tongue and body. His head hurts from managing all of these stupid, dumb thoughts — they’re useless and pathetic. 

But, on the other hand — they’re really the only things that are keeping him alive, aren’t they?

Dream glances up at Sapnap and sees the tiny frown on his lips. It doesn’t seem to be one of disappointment or anger, which is surprising, and it — somehow — doesn’t seem to be addressed to Dream.

When the pyromaniac opens his mouth, Dream expects him to say anything but what he says. Some insults, some scathing shouts, screams and cries of how Dream is so fucking _manipulative_ and _horrible,_ a villain at best and irreparable, irredeemable at worst. 

“Show me your wrists.” 

Dream seizes up, gaze snapping from skidding lazily over the table to Sapnap's determined face, a stunned expression flickering across his features before making way to panic. He clutches his hands to his chest unconsciously, protecting them. 

From who? From Sapnap, his practical brother in anything but blood? 

“Dream,” Sapnap says again. His voice is too gentle as he crouches in front of Dream, hands cupping around his knees. “Show me your wrists.” 

Dream swallows, forcing his words past his knotted tongue. “I’m not- I didn’t- Sapnap, I didn’t-” His breath hitches, chest beginning to heave in a panic. “Sapnap, I swear, I didn’t-”

“Please,” he whispers. Sapnap’s dark, dark eyes stare up at him almost imploringly. “Please. Show me, Dream.” 

The older’s mouth goes completely dry as he lowers his arms, letting them tumble limply into Sapnap’s ready hands. His best friend’s fingers, too warm and too soft, gently curl around Dream’s palm and push the sleeve of his iconic green hoodie up. 

Sapnap inhales sharply, fingers trembling as they tug at and unwrap the thick layer of bandages. It's white, devoid of any stains, but it's also yellowed and thready and worn. It also has so many layers it makes up half of Dream's arm width, and as he peels away more and more, Sapnap becomes more and more concerned. 

The last few strips of bandages — which are stained with dark burgundy — are unraveled, and Sapnap goes quiet. 

Dream doesn’t need to look down to know he’s looking at a painting of scars, thick and thin, scabbed over and healed, and new cuts bleeding fresh and raw. The air is so stiff, so tense, Dream can almost feel it hanging over their heads like a bucket of water. All it needs is a simple tip, and everything inside will come crashing down like a waterfall. 

"Dream," Sapnap whispers. The blonde flinches at his tone; it's too whispery and soft and frail. He stays silent, watching as Sapnap stares down at his arm and then swipes his thumb over the scabbed scars, carefully avoiding the fresher cuts. 

"It's fine," Dream says abruptly, the words catching on the edge of his lip and tumbling over like heavy blocks of steel. He thinks one of them trips and cuts into his lip. “It’s- it’s fine, Sapnap. Please, don’t- don’t worry- oh, god, Sapnap, don’t cry either-” 

“You promised,” Sapnap says, fingers quivering as they rest against Dream’s wrist weakly, helplessly. “You promised- you promised you would stop, Dream.” 

God, how Dream hates the way his voice shakes and wavers and chokes up with swelling tears. He’s messed up again, made another mistake, cracked and shattered another promise. 

What else can he do but try and fix it now? Fix it, as no one can — wants to — do for him? 

“I know, Pandas,” Dream mumbles, arms rising to rest his elbows on Sapnap‘a shoulders. “I’m- I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re _not,_ ” Sapnap cries, stumbling up and forward to bury his face in Dream’s shoulder. “You- you idiot, you _idiot —_ you think you deserve his pain when- you _don’t,_ Dream, you don’t. So stop-” His tears soak into Dream’s sweatshirt, a parallel to his blood. He clings on, curling his fingers into Dream’s clothes so tight it almost hurts. “D-Dream, you said- you said you would _stop-”_

“Sapnap,” Dream cuts in, pushing him away a little to look him in the eyes. The saddest smile Sapnap has ever seen graces his lips, tilting the planes of his mouth. “Pandas. A few cuts won’t stop me from loving you, so- so stop worrying. Stop crying, you big crybaby.” 

His tone lilts up a little at the end, attempting a prod at a joke, and Sapnap can do nothing but cling onto Dream’s thin, bruised form and hope, plead, _beg,_ that he won't let go. 

Dream's eyes slide closed, succumbing to the darkness. Dark scarlet blood and pellucid, dripping tears drift around in the murky liquid surrounding his body. 

He sinks in deeper, lungs burning and chest throbbing and vision behind his eyelids flaring and temples beginning to pound. 

It’ll all be washed away soon. Dream’s mistakes, experiences, memories — happy ones and despairing ones — will all be swept away by the slow, inky lull of the dark. 

_‘Don’t let go, Dream. Promise me.’_

_‘Sorry, Sapnap,’_ Dream thinks distantly before his thoughts are brushed away, led away by the steady stream of ink. _‘I already have.’_

Dream drifts and chokes and closes his eyes and drowns and waits for everything to fade into soft, cloudy ink. 

* * *

He misses the old Wilbur. 

The old Wilbur, before he’d ever set foot in Dream’s cursed, tainted land. He would’ve seen right through Dream’s mask, right through his walls and defenses and reach out to him with rotting, curling hands and fingers and— 

—cradle his heart gently, taking Dream’s scarred arms and pressing a kiss to the insides of his bloodied wrists. 

He would probably spread Dream’s hands out ever-so-carefully, picking every little bit of glass from them until the grinding little crystals are gone, taking the stinging pain with them. And then the old Wilbur probably would’ve wrapped them up in bandages, slow and methodical, until Dream’s hands were drenched in sterile white instead of the usual filthy crimson. 

Dream knows the old Wilbur probably would’ve swiped at the tears sliding down his cheeks and flicked them away, mumbling something teasing and drawn-out and _so_ quietly comforting, like Wilbur always was. 

Maybe he would’ve brushed a soft kiss against his pale forehead. Maybe Wilbur would’ve curled his fingers around Dream’s scarred palm and press their foreheads together. Maybe. 

Dream misses Wilbur. 

Dream misses the old Schlatt, the old father he knew from his blurry memories when he was seven. Maybe younger. 

He would’ve probably taken Dream into a hug, press his forehead to his shoulder and tell him that he did so well. That he can take a break now, that he can rest and let go. 

Dream probably would’ve cried even harder, curling his hands into the front of his father’s shirt. The old Schlatt would've chuckled wetly and then hugged him even tighter, drowning him in the warm, beautiful golden waves of love. Fatherly love, the one neither of them got to experience. 

Schlatt would’ve just hauled him up and into his lap, holding him just like a homely father would hold a delicate, beloved baby. He’d just let Dream sit there and cry, rumbling out brief nothings that poured over the blonde’s ears and soothe the lingering pain all over. 

He probably would’ve been chuckling at the way Dream buried his face in his shoulder and clung to him, refusing to let go. Schlatt wouldn’t have minded, though. 

Maybe he would’ve ruffled Dream’s hair, fingers creeping towards the clasp of his mask. Maybe he would’ve undone it, letting the ceramic disc fall between them. Maybe he would’ve sighed in contention and then pulled away to rub at Dream’s tears, hugging him again and shifting into a more comfortable position right after. Maybe. 

Dream misses Schlatt. 

Dream misses the old Sapnap, the one who would’ve laughed loudly and then cried loudly and then threw himself on Dream in a giant hug. The one who was like a teddy bear of sorts — a very large teddy bear, with friendly pyromaniac tendencies and an e-boy outfit. 

The Sapnap that would’ve giggled with him when they tucked their little bodies behind dumpsters to eat shitty food from the broken-down store across the street, the Sapnap that would’ve tackled Dream and then rolled the two across a field of soft, golden daffodils and dandelions, laughing heartily the entire time. 

The Sapnap Dream knew and had engraved into his mind, his memories from since he was five. 

Not the one with the shiny, burning eyes that stunk of molten glass, not the one with the bitter twist of his lips and the bloodied diamond sword clenched in his hands, tainted with the mortality of too many loved ones.

Not the one who took one look at Dream in the prison and warned, vowed and swore, that he would be the one sliding a paper-thin blade across Dream’s throat dare he try and escape. No, not that one. 

Dream misses Sapnap. 

* * *

Sometimes, Dream wonders if they miss him, too. 

The Dream who was all smiles and grins, inside and out. The Dream who was laid back and easygoing, the Dream who was all kettle wheezes and cackling laughter. The Dream who lifted and shifted his mask aside as if it weighed nothing more than a feather. 

~~_Now, his mask is too heavy for Dream to even dream of pushing it — even a mere inch — back up. It’s burdened by the weight of all of his mistakes._~~

The Dream who would’ve never pitted himself against L’Manberg, the Dream who would’ve visited and dropped by so often cheerfully, bringing various gifts judt to hear the delighted shrieks of joy. The Dream who would’ve never pushed for an exile of a bare teen, who would’ve never destroyed and crumpled up the dreams of an insane, long-gone ghost and a haunted child. 

The Dream who would beg and plead for his sins. The Dream who would apologize, head hanging low with shame dripping from the ending strands of his hair. The Dream who would scramble for the resurrection book, jump and pounce at any chance of redeeming himself. Of cleansing his soul of his sins and atrocities. 

~~_Except he’s too far gone for any hope of clearing his name and mind and soul. There’s no chance for Dream; not anymore._~~

Dream wonders if they miss that Dream, and wonders if there’s any way for him to be himself again. 

His eyes, his scratched-up, worn jade eyes, skid upwards almost lazily. They come to rest on the shapes hooked up from the ceiling, slowly spinning and revolving teasingly, tauntingly, hauntingly. Ah, it’s them.

Dream’s mistakes. 

A brief understanding flits over Dream’s face before he pushes himself up _(he ignores the way his arms almost crumple under his own weight)_ and presses his back up against the obsidian wall, ignoring the way random shards grit against his skin and the way he’s gasping for breath just from pushing himself up to sit. 

Dream raises his hand, letting his fingers hover in the air almost ghost-like. He reaches out further and further, bridging his way across the abyss and finally, finally feeling his fingertips slide over the smooth surface of the clock. 

A little smile twists Dream’s lips; he can’t believe he hasn’t thought of this yet. He curls his hand around the clock, picking it up and yanking it down, snapping the strings as he brings it to his chest. Dream raises the clock above his head, taking no heed of the trembling of his arm, and then brings his hand down like he’s throwing a rock. 

Unlike a rock, however, the clock does break. It shatters apart, scattering Dream with beautiful little clear, edged stones, and it looks so, so ugly. 

With a shaking hand that Dream paints a bright, crimson smile on, he picks up one of the shards. It’s a pretty, hideous thing, with many facets and shiny glittering dust and horridly sharp edges serrated beyond belief. 

It’s so much more perfect than Dream will ever be. Could ever dream to be. 

A bewitching, twitching curve bends the planes of his mouth until it resembles a mockery of a bloody smile. Dream smiles some more when he pushes the glass into his palm harder, and then brings the shard to his other palm. 

He draws with the little jagged crystalline sliver. He dips it in red, crimson, scarlet and vermillion, cerise and maroon. He uses his own body as a canvas, and as he stares down from his slumped position against the wall, Dream thinks he’s never created such a masterpiece before. 

Another smile, this time softer and stiffer, curls Dream’s mouth. He’s finally created something beautiful, even if it is his death. 

Surrounded by the scattered bits and pieces and parts and shards and slivers and chips of his own mistakes, all hanging and spinning from the ceiling and lying limp on the weeping, dark purple floor aside him, Dream finally stops and lets go for the final time. 

A tiny bubble escapes his mouth and drifts up, up, up towards the muddled, muffled surface. 

* * *

Sapnap treks through the woods, eyes ashen gray and so very cool. He thinks there is dried salty liquid on his cheeks, freezing in the frigid weather; quite frankly, he doesn’t care. He’d be rather content with dying here of hypothermia, respawning, and then coming back here to die again — in the most slow, painful way possible. 

It’s what he deserves. Sapnap clenches his fist. 

It’s what Dream went through. Sapnap loosens his hands and glances at his hunger bar. 

Three. Three slots left until he starts dying of starvation. 

Good, he thinks. He forges on, eyes open and gaze searching but not truly seeing anything. The world has been so devoid of colors lately — especially red. Particularly red. And green, that too. 

A little brown flicker catches on the peripheral of Sapnap’s vision, and the arsonist spares it a single lackluster glance before brushing it off as a simple morning. After all, he is down to — he checks again — two and a half hunger bars, and he’s in the worst biome a pyromaniac like him could be in. He could just be hallucinating. 

The brown appears again, skittering away as soon as Sapnap turns his head to fully face it. His lips twist; is he really just seeing things? Just at two bars? He must be weaker than he thinks. 

A flurry batch of snow hits him straight in the face, gliding into his mouth and up his nose and Sapnap takes a moment to spit the flaky ice out. His vision sways a bit, and he finds himself swaying with it. 

_‘Uh oh,’_ Sapnap thinks, just as his legs give out and his knees buckle and his entire form collapses onto the snow. It melts loudly, but his body heat can do nothing to stop the cold slowly crawling up his arms and legs. _‘Uh oh.’_

Sapnap wonders how death felt for Dream. Was it releasing? Was it a relief? Was it a horrifying realization of dread? He’ll get to experience it for himself soon, anyway. He’s down to half a slot; the entire empty bar is quivering violently. A small smile worms its way onto his lips at the thought. 

The brown smudge appears once more, appearing much closer this time. It steps back and forth hesitantly before it finally hops forward, immediately dropping to its knees and rummaging through a little bag at his side. It’s... it’s a forest green bag. 

Something at the back of Sapnap’s mind jerks and yanks and demands his attention, but his head is spiraling too much for him to focus. He’s barely keeping conscious — and he knows he won’t be able to for much longer. His health bar has finally dropped to zero, and the painful cramps are already tearing through his body, gnawing away at his hearts. 

A cold hand — even colder than the snow and biting wind whipping around them — curls around his jaw, pries it open gently. Sapnap can do nothing to resist; if it’s a something dangerous, then so what? He didn’t come out here to live, anyway. 

But the thing being pressed to his lips is not a potion. No, it’s a fruit of some sort — apple! Apple, with a tinge of metallic and a swirl of shimmering magic. 

A... a gapple? 

But- from who? 

Sapnap doesn’t have time to contemplate these questions or seek out an answer to them; all he can feel and register right now is the way warmth is suddenly rushing through his blood and limbs and the way his health and hearts bar is climbing steadily. Oh, and the cold fingers against his face — they’re still there. 

“Sorry, Pandas,” someone whispers. Sapnap thinks he’s going delirious or finally insane; it would make more sense than whatever he’s thinking right now. Whatever he’s hearing right now, because there is no way his best-friend-of-more-than-nine-years-turned-hated-enemy — who is also fucking _dead_ — is talking to him right now. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sapnap’s vision goes inky black, and so does his mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> ye ah h hhh h hh so that was a. that was a wild ride, aye? 
> 
> anyway i speedran this at 2:30 am and i have a big end of the unit test tomorrow in english pray for me 🙏🙏🙏 
> 
> so!! back to the fic :D how did you guys like it?? i kinda. started this up with lots of motivation, lost that motivation halfway through, and then bullshitted the end — as i always do. 
> 
> this is probably the last dream angst fic you’ll have from me in a while LOL gonna go catch up on my 5dream oneshots series and also maybe churn out some dnb stuff if i feel cute idk lol ✌️✌️ 
> 
> LMAO anyways let’s discuss ghost dream’s design for this au :DD i personally imagined him with like,,, brown clothing? sort of? because it used to be green, but then it was stained with red and uh it made the clothing ✨brown✨ but like not in the gross way, it’s literally just colored brown. yKNOW??? 
> 
> and yeah. he carries around a hip bag that’s way fuckin larger than it looks, and he also has a bunch of like belts and loops an shit around his torso to carry all of the things his mistakes represented/were viewed as. for example: the clock, the discs, blue from ghostbur, etc. they’re all copies except for the clock LOL and the animals are just figurines, i guess whjskahska not too small tho, since dream has to carry the weight of his mistakes even in the afterlife :) 
> 
> idk if that’s too vague or sumn whdjdhskshaj i just didn’t really uh think this through too well?? anyway yeah most of this was written after 1 am so take that as you will :’D 
> 
> that’s it for today!! i hope you enjoyed reading :3 take care of yourselves and stay safe mwah love you guys lots >:D okay now bYE


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